


To Plant a Garden (is to believe in tomorrow)

by msgenevieve



Series: between the land and the sky (you'll find the blessed sea) [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Mild Angst, Mild Fluff, No Spoilers, Settling down in Storybrooke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 23:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2365406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msgenevieve/pseuds/msgenevieve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Storybrooke might be her home now, but that doesn’t mean she wants to be still living with her parents when her baby brother is ready to go off to college.  And then, of course, there’s the pirate who gave up his ship but refuses to admit he misses having a real home.  (The title is a quote from the beautiful (inside and out) Audrey Hepburn.  This story is set vaguely in S4, and there is no mention of Frozen.)</p><p>Prequel to "Goodnight Moon".</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Plant a Garden (is to believe in tomorrow)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Scribblecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribblecat/gifts).



> This is a special gift for my dear friend scribblecat27. I have been promising to write this particular request/prompt (involving searching for a home, a garden and long-buried memories of one particular pirate) for a while now, and I finally managed to escape from RL demands long enough this week to get it done. (P.S. Only two more sleeps to go until 401. Eieeee!)

~*~

 

One day, Emma thinks as she studies the black-clad figure sitting at her mother’s kitchen table, she’s going to write a book on how to deal with the brooding habits of teenaged boys and former pirates.  She’s definitely got enough material, she decides with a frown as she finishes pouring out two cups of coffee.  She adds cream and sugar to hers, and takes a deep breath as she makes her way to where Killian is sitting. 

“Okay.”  She clunks his coffee mug down onto the table in front of him, then crosses her arms.  “Out with it.”

His bright blue eyes widen, but not entirely in surprise. She sees alarm there too, and she knows her hunch had been right.  “Out with what, exactly?”

“You’ve barely said two words since we left the market.”  She drops into the chair beside him, effectively trapping his knee between hers.  “Not that I didn’t appreciate a break from hearing that story about Smee and the giant sea bass, but something’s wrong and I want to know what it is.”

He purses his lips, the gleam in his eyes becoming one of admiration as he dances his fingertips over the curve of her knee.  “I do so enjoy it when you get all stern, love.”

“Uh-uh.”  She shakes off the hand, determined not to be distracted her from her goal.  “Don’t think you can get around me like that.”  

He reaches for his mug, flashing her a quick smile over the white china rim.  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”  

He says nothing else, and Emma squashes down the urge to roll her eyes.  Taking a leaf out of his book, she silently sips her own coffee, mentally retracing their steps that afternoon, trying to get back to the moment when the light had gone out of his eyes and the proverbial cat had stolen his tongue.

They’d been at the modest and newly opened farmer’s market (a bright idea from the dwarves and Tiny, who else?) at the edge of town, taking the rare chance to simply enjoy each other’s company.  Between her family and Storybrooke’s latest visitors and the fact that Killian rents a room from two women with preternatural hearing, finding time for just the two of them has been hard to come by.   He’d ridden along with her on a morning call-out nearby (a false alarm involving a near-sighted former chimera hunter and a large Maine seabird) and, when he’d started for the police cruiser afterwards, she’d given him a playful smile. “What’s your rush?”

His eyes had lit up as he’d taken her hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm.  “No rush here, love, I assure you.”

They’d spent the next half hour wandering amidst the fresh produce, endearingly misshaped vases and the most random selection of handmade goods.  Marco had been there, selling his cuckoo clocks, and she’d given Killian a warning glance at the sight of his mischievous smile.  “Don’t you dare.”

As usual, he had looked completely unrepentant. “Your mother would love one and you know it.”

“I know she would, but there’s enough noise in the loft as it is.”   She had winced, thinking of this morning’s rush hour at the loft, which had been especially disorganised.  “I think we can do without adding a cuckoo screeching every hour on the hour.”

They’d kept strolling up and down the makeshift stalls, talking of nothing and everything (he’d started telling her about the time Smee had stripped down to his ‘skivvies’ and jumped into the sea to untangle a snarled fishing line, a mental image she really hadn’t needed).  The morning sun had been warm on her back, Killian’s shoulder firm against hers, and no one was looking to her to save anything or anyone.  All things considered, it had been a pretty good morning.  When they’d come to the stall selling plants and fresh herbs, though, things had gotten a little weird.

She’d grinned at the sight of all the potted herbs, and had given into the urge to bury her nose in a combined bouquet of mint and cilantro.  Storybrooke’s dining scene wasn’t exactly New York, and a sudden pang of nostalgia for the Vietnamese restaurant around the corner from where she and Henry had lived for a year had washed over her.  “God, I want to buy the whole lot.”

“They do smell delightful,” he’d agreed, his breath warm against her cheek as he’d leaned closer, his hip pressing against hers.  The familiar spark had darted across her skin, making her hands twitch with the urge to touch him, and she’d been very tempted to forgo the rest of the market and try their luck sneaking past Granny’s eagle eye and up into his room.  Their eyes had met and locked, and she’d seen the same thought blazing in his gaze.  It had only been the sound of the stall holder (one of Leroy’s friends whose name she couldn’t place) clearing their throat that had saved her dignity, and while she was buying an armful of herbs that she’d probably never use, Killian had wandered off to examine the potted plants. 

She’d found him studying a small but extremely healthy looking lavender bush in a white stone pot.  “Wow,” she’d murmured, paying no attention to the oddly stiff set of his shoulders or the fact that he seemed to be transfixed by the purple flowered plant (hindsight was a wonderful thing).  “I haven’t smelled real lavender in years.”  She’d reached out and gently curled her hand around a sprig, brushing her fingertips upwards until the heady perfume filled the air.  “Maybe I should get that for Mary-”

She’d broken off, suddenly realising she’d been talking to thin air.  Lifting her head, she’d spotted Killian striding away from the stall in the direction of the police cruiser, his head bowed.  Such a display of poor manners (bad form) was very unlike him these days, and she’d stared after him, completely at a loss.  _What the hell?_

She’d left the lavender in its pretty pot, and carried her herbs back to the car.  She’d found Killian leaning against the passenger side door, his arms folded across his chest, his hook glinting in the sun.  “You got a problem with greenery?”   She smiles at him, hoping to break through whatever cloud seems to be hovering over his head.  “Mind you, after Neverland, I’m not the biggest fan either.”

“No problem.” He gives her a quick, tight smile that doesn’t sit right on his face. “Perhaps we should get back to the station.”

He’d barely spoken on the drive back.  When, at the last moment, she’d turned the car towards home rather than the station, he hadn’t protested.  (David was on duty this morning, she’d reasoned, and he could definitely spare her for another hour or so.)   She’d suggested coffee before they headed back and he’d agreed without offering a lurid suggestion of how they could put an empty loft to _much_ better use.  It was then that she’d known that something was definitely eating away at him.

Now, sitting with him at her mother’s shabby chic table, she looks at him carefully, rubbing her palm with the fingertips of her other hand.  She’d washed her hands before she’d made the coffee, but she imagines she can still smell the lavender oil on her skin.  She thinks of how he’d been staring at the plant, as though he’d seen a ghost, and it occurs to her that maybe he had. “It was the lavender, wasn’t it?”

His expression tightens, then his eyes flutter shut, lashes dark against his suddenly pale cheeks.  “Aye.”

“Did it remind you of someone?”  Her hand is gripping his before she’s even realised she’s reached for him. She hesitates, worried the name she’s about to say will sound awkward coming out of her mouth, but she presses on. “Milah?”

Opening his eyes, he shakes his head, his hand squeezing hers.  “No.”  His mouth quirks, as though he’s trying to smile.  “My mother.” 

She stares at him.  Whatever she’d been expecting him to say, it definitely hadn’t been that _._ “Oh.”

“She passed when I was little more than young Roland’s age, but I remember that smell quite well. Lavender and freshly tilled earth.”  His wry smile makes her throat tighten.  “I just didn’t realise that I remembered until today.”

“I’m so sorry-” she begins, but he doesn’t let her finish, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing his lips to her palm, his eyes closing again as he inhales the scent of her skin.

“Don’t be sorry, lass.”  His words are soft, muffled against her palm.  “I’m glad to have been reminded.”   He kisses her palm again, his beard scraping against her skin, making her fingers curl.   “I’m sorry I was ill-tempered earlier.”

“That’s okay.”  Maybe she shouldn’t dig any deeper into the topic, but the tiny pieces of his past are like gemstones hidden beneath layers of flirtation and banter, and she can’t resist the impulse to learn more.  “Did she grow lavender in her garden?”

“Aye.” He lifts his head, his gaze steady and clear as it meets hers.  “I believe she was quite the keen horticulturalist.” His shoulders lift in a resigned shrug.  “Not that I remember such details myself. Liam would tell me stories of our mother and the things she loved, trying to fill in the gaps in my memory of her.”   He gives her a faintly sheepish smile.  “But it was all a very long time ago, love, and it was foolish of me to be so effected by a bloody plant.”

“I don’t think it’s foolish.” Still holding his hand in hers, she turns it over, trailing her fingernails across the curve of his palm.  “You had a home once, and today you remembered how much you missed it.”  

Emotion blazes brightly in his eyes, the space between them vanishing (as if by magic), and his mouth is warm and gentle on hers.  It’s a soft, brief kiss that promises a whole lot more, and she doesn’t bother hiding the regret in her voice when her phone buzzes with an incoming text from her father.  “Come on. David wants his coffee break,” she tells him with a grin as she gets to her feet, and she’s relieved to see the familiar spark of amusement in his eyes. 

“Anyone would think that your father was using his scheduled break as an excuse to check on our whereabouts.”

She snorts with laughter as she heads for the front door.  “I know, right?”

At the top of the internal staircase, he catches her hand in his once again.  “Thank you, Swan, for your kind words.”

The look in his eyes makes her answer stick in her throat.  _God,_ she’s still not used to this, the way he looks at her, the way he doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he thinks she’s amazing. “I didn’t do anything you haven’t already done for me.”

The warmth of his answering smile stays with her all the way back to the station.

 

~*~

 

When the thought finally comes to her, it comes to her in a sudden, almost painful moment of clarity.

The irony is that it doesn’t come to her in the midst of the usual morning chaos, with a crying baby brother and the sound of Henry’s videogame and both her and David’s phones ringing at the same time. 

Instead, it comes to her when she’s quite alone in the loft, drinking in the silence, her forehead pressed against the cool glass of the windowpane as she stares down at her mother’s carefully tended front garden.  She’s alone for the first time in days, the unfamiliar sense of peace intoxicating, and she suddenly understands the restlessness that’s been brewing beneath the surface of her thoughts.

She wants a place of her own. 

She more than wants it.  She _needs_ it, needs to have a _home_ in this town she’s come to call her own.  If she’s going to put down roots here, she needs somewhere that’s truly hers, somewhere that doesn’t make her feel as though she’s a teenaged girl still living under her parents’ roof.  She loves her parents, she really does.  She just doesn’t want to live with them until her baby brother is ready to go to college.  She wants a home that’s just hers.  And Henry’s home too, of course, when he’s with her (yes, she’s sharing him with Regina again, and she’s determined not to let that bother her, and she almost succeeds most of the time).

And maybe –

She stops there, just as she always does, conscious of the sudden fluttering of her pulse.  This thing with Killian, well, it’s complicated and strange and one of the best things that’s ever happened to her, but she tells herself that it’s too soon to even _consider_ the idea of living together.

And yet, she can’t stop thinking of a two-story house with a view of the water and a garden filled with lavender.

Ever since their visit to the farmers’ market, she’s been noticing certain things a lot more.  Killian misses his ship and the sea, she knew that already, but there’s something else there, something familiar about the wistfulness she sees in his face when they’re near the docks, close to the water and the screeching seabirds.  It’s as though the unexpected memory of his mother has unlocked something in him, something quiet and restless.  She recognises it as the same restlessness plucking at her own heart, and it makes her want to do something, _anything_ , to make the sadness in his eyes and the ache in her chest go away.  

Maybe one day he’ll want to leave Storybrooke, just like she did, looking for that _something_ he can’t quite name. 

Maybe he won’t. 

Maybe he’s just waiting for her to ask him to stay.

 

~*~

 

As always, Henry is a willing co-conspirator.  More than willing in fact.  When she tells him what she needs, he presents her with that day’s newspaper, with the appropriate real estate ads already circled.  “Really?”

He shrugs, but there’s no hiding the smug smile that stretches his lips. “Just thought I’d get ready for when you finally decided to start looking.”

“Brat.”  She runs her eye down the page, then looks at Henry. “Is it just my imagination, or do all these listings you’ve circled have three bedrooms and a water view?”

“I didn’t know how much room we’d need, so I thought bigger was better.”  Her son wriggles his eyebrows at her, and she realises that if she thought she was doing a good job of keeping her relationship with Killian on the lowdown, she is very much mistaken. 

She drums her fingers on the newspaper where it lays on the table.  She knows she’s going to have to talk to Henry’s other mother about all this, but it can’t hurt to get a bit of inside information beforehand. “Does Regina know you’ve been looking at the real estate section?”

Henry nods.  “Yep.”

“And she’s okay with that?”

“She was expecting it, she said.”

Emma represses the urge to roll her eyes in front of Henry, because she can only imagine the delivery of that particular line.  “You’re happy to be back here, right?”  She knows he is, but she also suspects she’s not the only one having trouble reconciling their year in New York with their lives now.  For a whole year, it had been just the two of them in the real world, and now that they’re back, sometimes their time in New York feels like nothing more than a really good dream.  “You don’t miss your friends?”

He shrugs again. “Sometimes,” he mumbles, his hands shifting restlessly on the table.  He’s biting his nails again, she realises with a pang.  “But our family is here.” 

She studies him for a moment.  She’s had to learn how to share him again, and she suddenly wonders if he feels the same way. “Do you miss when it was just the two of us?”

He looks at her steadily, his dark eyes serious.  “It was really cool being able to spend so much time with you-” He hesitates, the tips of his ears turning pink, and she gives him a smile of encouragement.

“But?”

“As soon as I remembered them, I remembered how much I missed everyone.”   He plays with the straw in his milkshake glass, and she recognises her own stalling tactics.  “I really like being back.”

She gently nudges the toe of her boot against his sneakered foot beneath the table.  “Remember when you wanted me to accept Walsh’s proposal?”

“Yeah, of course. “ Henry’s eyes widen.  “Why?  Did Captain Hook ask you to marry him?”

Emma literally feels her jaw drop open, and she struggles to put together a coherent reply.   “God, no, nothing like that.”

Henry gives her a knowing look spookily reminiscent of his grandmother.  “I know you guys are dating.”

 _“Jesus._ “ Emma blows out a sigh and accepts the inevitable fact that her private life is never going to be private, not in this town. “Okay, here’s the deal, kid.  If I find us a place of our own, there’s a chance that Killian might spend some time there too.” 

“Works for me.” Her son grins.  “Killian’s great.”

 _Well, there’s that problem solved._   Taking another deep breath, she pushes the newspaper back across the table of their usual booth at Granny’s, barely missing Henry’s half-finished milkshake.  “Think you can narrow it down to the ones that have enough room for a garden?”

Henry’s grin widens.  “Al- _right._ ”

 

~*~ 

 

She breaks the news of her plans to her parents over dinner at the loft, choosing a night when Henry is visiting Regina and she’s remembered to pick up a bottle of white wine on the way home from work.  Her baby brother is asleep (at last) and David has finally convinced her mother to sit down to dinner and relax for a while.

“You know I love being here with you guys,” she begins, and her mother’s head snaps up.

“You’re moving out.”

Emma blinks, feeling somewhat deflated yet relieved she doesn’t have to go through her prepared speech.  “Thinking about it, yeah.  Would that be a problem?”  The question might be odd coming from a thirty-year old woman who’s spent most of her adult life living alone, but her family isn’t exactly run of the mill.  “I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to spend time with you, it’s just-”

“You’re a grown woman and you need your own space.”   Her mother pours them all a glass of wine, handing one to David, who seems to be more reluctant to accept such a fait accompli.  “It _is_ kind of crowded here now, you have to admit,” she tells him, and he sighs.

“I know.”  He looks across the table at Emma.  “It feels like we only just found each other again, though.”

“Storybrooke isn’t that big a place,” Emma teases, and is relieved to see him smile.  “And we _do_ work together.”

“Your father and I will miss you, but it’s not as though we won’t see you all the time.”   Lifting her wineglass (there’s barely half an inch of wine in it, Emma observes with a private smile) she clinks it against Emma’s glass.  “I bet Henry’s excited.”

“He is.”  Emma takes a large gulp of wine, knowing she’s only told them half the story and having the feeling that the second half might not be as warmly welcomed.  “He’s now an expert at reading between the lines of real estate jargon, that’s for sure.”

David clears his throat pointedly. “What does Regina think about your plans for Henry’s living arrangements?” 

Emma sighs.  “I’m going to talk to her about it tomorrow.”  She gives them both a hopeful smile.  “But Henry said he’d already discussed it with her and she said she’d been expecting it.”

Her father makes a scoffing noise as he picks up his cutlery.  “I believe that’s called damning with faint praise.”

“Yeah, well, as long as she agrees that he gets to divide his time between the two of us as he chooses, I don’t care how many passive aggressive comments I have to hear.”

“And what does _Killian_ think of your plans?”  David gives his wife a pointed look at her question, (Emma tries not to notice) but Mary Margaret merely offers him a serene smile. 

Emma tries not to fidget in her seat. “I haven’t told him yet.”

“Why not?”  Her mother reaches for her fork, then pauses, her gaze locking with Emma’s, and whatever she sees in Emma’s eyes has her mouth forming an ‘O’ of surprise.   There’s an uncomfortable moment of silence between them (her father is happily eating his dinner) then her mother smiles. “Maybe you should.”

Emma’s face grows warm. There was a time when she’d longed for her mother to understand her better, and now it seems there’s a downside to a mother’s intuition.  Feeling as though she’s about to fling herself off the high dive into an empty pool, Emma looks Mary Margaret in the eye. “It’s complicated.”

“Wait, what?” Realisation dawns on her father’s face with comedic speed, and somehow he manages to look both scandalised (expected) and weirdly pleased (not so expected).  His mouth opens and closes without a making a sound, then he tries again. “What’s Killian got to do with you moving out?”

“Nothing.”  She takes another large gulp of wine (it almost washes away the taste of her bare-faced lie), then eyes the shepherd’s pie on her plate in an attempt to look as though this conversation isn’t beyond awkward.  “This looks great.”

“You know, Emma, it seems to me that Killian is still trying to find his place here, too.”  Mary Margaret’s mouth curves in a wry smile.  “You two always _did_ have a lot in common, now that I think about it.”

“Okay, hang on a minute.”  Her father leans forward in his seat, his expression the picture of fatherly bluster, and Emma braces herself. To her relief, Mary Margaret puts her hand on his arm. 

“Maybe we should eat dinner before it gets cold.”

David looks torn, and Emma finds herself grinning.  “I still have to find a place first.”   She spears her fork into the pie on her plate.  “You’ll have plenty of time to give me one of your patented father-daughter lectures about consorting with pirates,” she adds, giving her mother a quick wink before taking a mouthful of food.

“It’s not you that I need to lecture.” Her father sighs and reaches for his wineglass. “I have the feeling Killian will be only _too_ happy to hear about your plans to move out from under your parents’ roof.” 

Emma’s stomach tightens as she swallows her mouthful of pie, and she decides to give up dancing around the elephant in the room.  “Maybe.”  She knows the shepherd’s pie is one of her mother’s most accomplished dishes, but right now, she can’t quite taste it.  “I know he misses his ship, and living at Granny’s can’t be a whole lot of fun. I’m just worried that he might end up feeling, I don’t know, a little landlocked?”

Her parents exchange an unreadable glance, then her mother flashes her a knowing smile.  “Oh, I think he’d adjust.”

 

~*~

 

As Henry predicted, Regina is unsurprised by the news, but that doesn’t stop her from giving Emma what she’s come to think of as the Mayor’s Level 3 Withering Look.  “I suppose you want me to help him pack?”

“Only if you want to.” Emma gives the other woman her brightest smile, knowing her refusal to return fire will only annoy Regina more.  “I still have all his stuff from our time in New York in storage.”

Regina’s dark eyes narrow, but she lets the salvo go through.  “Too cosy at the Royal Palace these days?”  

“A little.”  Emma takes a sip of her hot chocolate, glad that she insisted they meet at Granny’s.  This conversation is awkward enough as it is, and there was no way she was going to have it on Regina’s home turf.  “It’s not exactly equipped to cope with a crowd.”

“Not to mention a crying baby,” Regina murmurs almost wistfully, and Emma finds herself smiling. 

“Those walls are pretty thin,” she agrees.  “I remember when Henry was a baby-” She breaks off, the words sticking in her throat.  She doesn’t remember Henry as a baby at all, of course.  Not really.  “ _Shit.”_    She eyes her hot chocolate, wondering if it’s too early to Irish things up.  “Sometimes I forget none of that actually happened.”

Regina’s expression is one that Emma’s not used to seeing.  Empathy has been in painfully short supply during their relationship, to say the least. “I know it wasn’t real, but would you want to give those memories up?”

Her answer is one that Emma knows she will never have to think about. “No.” She blinks away the sudden blur of tears.  “I’m glad I have them, even if they hurt.”

Amusement flares in Regina’s dark eyes.  “You just described being a mother perfectly.”   There’s a pause, not entirely awkward, but not exactly comfortable,  then the other woman pushes back her chair and gets to her feet.  “Would I be correct in assuming that the pirate will be spending more quality time with our son once you have your own place?”

 _And it’s back to being awkward again._   “He’d be visiting, yes.”  Emma meets Regina’s gaze steadily.  “Is that a problem?”

Regina shrugs.  “As long as Henry’s happy, I suppose I’m fine with it. As I’ve told you before, Hook is a teenaged boy’s dream buddy.”   She hesitates, then adds a grudging, “and I suppose he’s proven his reliability.”

 _Damn straight,_ Emma thinks but manages not to say.  “I’ll let you know as soon as I find a place.”

Regina nods briskly, but there’s something vulnerable about the way she crosses her arms across her chest.  “Would I also be correct in assuming that your decision to find new accommodation here means that your plans to return to New York are off the table?”

Emma can’t blame her for raising the subject, given the circumstances, but she can’t help wondering how many times she has to have this conversation. “I’m not planning on taking him away again, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The other woman tilts her head in a ridiculously regal gesture.  “I’m glad to hear it.”   And with that, she sweeps out of the diner, leaving Emma slumped in her seat with relief and no small amount of trepidation. With _that_ conversation out of the way, there’s only one more person she needs to let in on her little secret.

All she has to do is find exactly the right moment.

 

~*~ 

 

“Hey.”  She hastily shoves the real estate section of the paper into her top drawer as Killian appears in the doorway, a cardboard tray holding two takeout coffee cups balanced on his hook.  It’s a trick she can’t help admiring every single afternoon (which is why he does it, of course).  “I wasn’t expecting you for another hour.”

He walks slowly towards her desk, his bright blue gaze sweeping over her with his usual attention to detail.  “Everything alright, love?”

“Peachy.” She very carefully doesn’t look at her top drawer.  “Why do you ask?”

“You’ve been as jumpy as a March hare for days.”  He gives her a long look of consideration as he places the tray carefully on her desk.  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with the latest development in the saga of the Queen and Loxley, would it?”

Emma grimaces.  She and Regina have a tacit agreement not to discuss Robin Hood, but it’s proving impossible to avoid hearing gossip in a town like this.  She knows exactly which development Killian means (two days ago Robin moved out of Granny’s and is now camping with his Merry Men by himself, letting Roland enjoy the comforts of indoor plumbing and his mother’s company)  and it makes her want to clunk her head onto the desk.   “Actually, I try to think about that particular mess as little as possible.”

“That’s disappointing.”

“What do you mean?”

His gaze slowly travels over her from head to toe, then he scans the station, apparently taking in the fact that her father is noticeably absent.  “I _was_ hoping to have to take your mind off that particular mess,” he murmurs as he walks around her desk.  She spins her chair to face him as he comes to stand in front of her, bending down until his hand and hook are sitting on the armrests of her chair.   This close, she can feel the heat of him, the mingled scent of his still-new leather jacket and his skin making her belly clench.  “But it appears you’re in no need of distraction.”

“Well, I’m sure I could come up with _something_ I might need distracting from,” she teases in a voice that’s not quite steady, and his lips curve in a wolfish smile. 

“That’s my girl.”

She puts her hands on his forearms, feeling the butter soft sleeves of his jacket beneath her palms. “Woman.”

He’s still smiling when he kisses her, his mouth tasting of black coffee and that weird hot cinnamon gum he’s decided he likes, and she wants nothing more than to take a bite right out of him, push him back onto her desk and climb aboard.  It’s been days since she’s felt his skin against hers, even longer since they’ve spent the night together.  Her hands clutch at his forearms as she shifts restlessly in her office chair, kissing him with a hunger that never, _ever_ stops taking her by surprise.   He inhales sharply, then he’s lifting her out of her chair and pulling her into his arms, a silent demand she’s only too happy to fulfil. 

Winding her arms around his neck, she rises up her toes and kisses him even harder, her tongue curling around his as heat slides through her belly then lower, tight and aching between her legs.  He puts his hand on the small of her back, pressing her hips against his, and the feel of him, hard and urgent and _wanting_ , makes her knees turn to water. 

It also makes her remember with a start exactly where they are, and she knows they have to stop. 

Five minutes later, after a few false starts (he’d started kissing her neck, damn him), she’s sitting at her desk and he’s flicking through one of the many procedural manuals that apparently came to Storybrooke with the original curse.  She’s never looked at them herself, and the sight of him poring over a book of rules and regulations makes her grin.  “Looking for loopholes, Captain?”

His expression is that of a man falsely accused.  “I’ll have you know I’m quite the law-abiding citizen these days.”  

“Who’s a law-abiding citizen?”  Her father appears in the doorway with his usual sense of timing, and Emma gives a silent prayer of thanks that he didn’t arrive five minutes earlier.  As it is, she finds running a discreet hand down her shirtfront to make sure her buttons are all refastened.  She doesn’t need to look at Killian to know that the tips of his ears are still pink.

“Killian’s just brushing up on the local laws,” she tells him, and her father shoots him an amused glance. 

“Well, you gotta learn the rules before you can bend them,” he says cheerfully, earning himself a snort of laughter from Killian.

“Fine words from a Prince,” Killian tosses back before burying his nose in the manual once more.  The fact that he actually seems to be reading it, rather than just using it as an excuse to hang out at the station, earns him an extra gold star as far as Emma’s concerned.

“Emma, before I forget, I asked Granny to put aside any empty boxes she might have for you.”

 _Oh, God._ Emma gives her father a pointed stare, and his eyes widen.  “For Henry, I mean.”

“Thanks,” she mutters, wondering how the hell her parents ever won any battles in the Enchanted Forest.  “I’ll let him know.”

“What are you doing here, anyway?”   She puts aside the last vehicle incident report (tailgating is a very popular pastime in Storybrooke, it seems) and looks at her father.  “I thought you guys were taking Neal to Dr Whale for his three month check-up today?”

“We are, I just came in to get something.”   David is rummaging in the top drawer of his desk.  “Damn it. I thought I left the spare keys to the loft here, but maybe Henry has them.”

The mere mention of house keys is making her feel twitchy, Emma realises in dismay, and she gives her father another tight smile. “I’m meeting him later, I’ll ask.”

David looks at Killian, then at her, then nods.  “Right.  See you guys later.”

“Good luck with the physician, mate.”   When her father is gone, Killian shuts the procedural manual and looks at her expectantly.  “Take you to lunch, love?”

She looks at him, and the urge to spill everything is overwhelming.  It’s not as though she’s asking him to come and live with her, she reasons.  She’s just going to tell him that she’ll soon have a place of her own.  “Hey, listen-”

The phone on her desk begins to ring, and she has to fight the urge to backhand it onto the floor.  Killian makes a face at it, then gets to his feet.  “Or perhaps I could buy you dinner tonight instead.”

She smiles at him, ignoring the ringing phone. “That depends.”

“On what, pray tell?”

She puts her hand on the receiver, feeling it vibrate beneath her hand like an angry hornet. “Whether or not we can get it ‘to go’ and eat it in your room.”

His bright blue gaze darkens, and she sees the fleeting press of his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “I’m sure that could be arranged.”

She blows out a long breath as he saunters out of the station, feeling the familiar prickle of anticipation tightening her skin, then picks up the phone and is plunged back into the world of petty neighbourhood complaints, otherwise known as weird-ass fairy tale grudges.

She does get to have dinner with Killian that night, sprawled out on his bed with two trays between them, mood music provided by her phone plugged into one of Henry’s many portable mp3 docks.   She’s pleasantly exhausted, and she decides not to broach the subject of living arrangements tonight.  It’s ridiculous, she knows, but it feels like too intimate a conversation to have while sitting on his bed. 

She falls asleep before she can even look at the cherry pie he’d added to their order, and the last thing she remembers is Killian pulling the bed covers up to her chin and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

~*~

As it turns out, the real estate market in Storybrooke is surprisingly active, but it still takes two weeks for her to find the right place.  Two weeks of keeping secrets and waking up every morning afraid that today might be the day that Killian decides there is no true place for him in Storybrooke, despite their growing closeness.

(She still keeps waiting for the people she loves to leave.  Once bitten, twice shy, after all.)

When she finally walks into the right house, she’s barely got a foot through the front door before she just _knows._  It’s a two story weatherboard house, painted buttercup yellow, with three generous bedrooms and a huge living space.  There’s a balcony off the largest bedroom, and from it she can see the harbour and hear the distant calling of the gulls.  She smiles at the sight of the small second bathroom (very important when sharing a home with a teenager) and the renovated kitchen.  The year spent in her New York apartment has taught her a lot about what she likes and doesn’t like (she’d never been that fussed about fittings and fixtures before) and she knows she could be happy here.

There’s enough room for a garden.

More importantly, Henry gives it two thumbs up, and promptly calls the second largest bedroom as his own.

Her new landlord is Gold, which comes as no surprise, and she is careful to avoid any mention of anyone but herself and Henry living under their new roof.   The thing is, it _might_ just be her and Henry, because she’s spent the last two weeks too afraid to ask Killian how he feels about moving out of his room at Granny’s to somewhere more permanent.   But she and Henry still need a place of their own, and she signs the twelve-month lease without hesitation, wondering if it’s the first time anyone’s signed a contract with Gold without being afraid of the fine print.  His knowing smirk as he hands over the keys makes her think that it is.

The day after she’s signed the lease, Henry tells her that he’d been at Granny’s and overheard Killian talking to Sneezy about the spare room to let at the dwarf’s house.  “He said that he ‘feared he was wearing out his welcome with the widow Lucas’,” Henry reports with a solemn air, and Emma’s resolve is renewed.   Killian hasn’t said a negative word to her about his living arrangements, and now she knows it’s because he hasn’t wanted to worry her.

“In that case,” she tells her son, “I guess it’s time for Operation Buttercup to kick into high gear.”

Henry’s grin almost splits his face in two.  “Yes!” 

She enlists very few people to help with her plans (she keeps her parents out of it as much as she can, because while she loves them, neither of them can keep a secret worth a damn).  To her relief, her chosen helpers are only too happy to, well, help.   Henry proves to be a Godsend in both the secret-keeping and pirate-occupying department s, and is promised a new video game as reward for his efforts.  He tells her he would have done it for nothing, then rushes to assure her that he’d still like the video game, thank you very much.

Marco nods approvingly when she tells him what she needs.   “Raised garden beds?”  He rubs his gnarled hands together in anticipation.  “Yes, yes.  Very simple to make. And take it from an old man, my dear, you’ll be glad of them when you’re my age. Not so much bending required!”

The thought of still living in Storybrooke when she’s Marco’s age is surreal, to say the least, and her laughter sounds nervous, even to her own ears.  “I’m not thinking that far ahead, trust me.”  Realising how _that_ might sound, she pats Marco’s arm in apology.  “You’re not that old, you know.”

He beams at her, and she briefly remembers the unhappy man she’d known before his son had been restored to him.  “I am, my darling, but it’s very kind of you to say otherwise.”  He looks at the rough sketch she’d given him (she’ll never make it as a landscaper, that’s for sure), and taps his finger against his lips.  “When did you say you wanted these finished?”

She gives him her best pleading smile. “As soon as you can?”  He looks at her, his expression thoughtful.  His eyes might be rheumy with age, but she has the feeling that he still sees things _very_ clearly, and her face grows warm.  “I mean, I just want things to be perfect when Henry sees the place for the first time.” Okay, she thinks, it’s not _exactly_ a lie, but this is Marco, and if anyone can spot a half-truth better than she can, it’s him.

“Of course.”  Marco might be able to see right through her, but his smile is kindly, making any misgivings about her little white lie fade away. “Consider it done.”

~*~

 

Marco is as good as his word.  A week before moving day, Emma stands on the front cobblestone path leading to the front door and studies the pleasant but bland yard.  She wants to plant herbs and flowers and she wants to do it now, not after she moves in.  She wants to be greeted by fragrant plants and tiny flowers, for it to feel like home before she’s even carried the first packing box through the front door.

She wants to be able to smell lavender. 

Her mother helps her with the planting while her father keeps Killian busy at the station.  She has to admit, their secret-keeping abilities seem to have improved, or maybe they’re only good at keeping happy secrets.  Either way, she’s grateful.  The last thing she wants to do is to have to explain to Killian why she’s borrowing David’s truck and driving across the town line to the nearest plant nursery.

Mary Margaret is waiting for her when she pulls up at the new place - _her_ new place.  Her mother is like a kid in a candy store as she looks over the plants in the back of the truck.  “I used to help Johanna tend the herb garden when I was a child,” she blurts out, then blinks several times, her dark eyes glittering as she presses her palm against her heart.  “ _Oh._ ”

“Hey, hey.”  Emma gives her mother a one-armed hug.  “Shit.  That’s two people I’ve upset with shrubbery now.”

“It’s okay.” Mary Margaret sniffs, then dashes her eyes with the back of her hands.  “I just haven’t said her name for a while.  I didn’t expect it to hurt quite that much.”  She shakes her head, as though trying to clear her thoughts, then lifts her chin and turns her attention back to the plants crammed into the back of David’s truck.  Emma’s heart sinks when her mother’s eyes start to glisten with tears once more, but then Emma sees that she’s smiling. “You bought snowbells.”

Emma smiles at the tiny white flowers.  “David mentioned that you liked them, so I thought-“

This time her mother hugs her, so hard that Emma thinks her ribs might crack.  “They were my mother’s favourite.”

Emma closes her eyes, sinking into the comforting warmth of her mother’s embrace.  If she’d known that simply finding a rental and creating a garden would open up so many pathways between herself and the people she loves (yes, _loves_ , she loves him, even though she hasn’t said the words to anyone but herself), she would have done it months ago.  “Thank you for helping me today.”

Her mother pulls back, her hands cupping Emma’s face. “I know you’ll be happy here.”  Mary Margaret’s dimples flash, her smile one of pure mischief.  “All three of you.”

The words bring a lump to Emma’s throat.  She hasn’t even broached the subject with Killian yet, and she’s suddenly envious of her mother’s optimism.  “I hope so.”

“Well, it’s like I told you.”   Her mother smooths her knuckles against the curve of her cheek, her tender gaze making Emma feeling small and cherished in the best possible way.  “Happy endings always start with hope.”

 

~*~

 

“Alright, Swan.  Out with it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been buzzing like a blue-arsed fly all day.”   Wrapping his hand around her elbow, he gently tugs her downward to sit beside him.  “Why don’t you tell me what’s got you in such a state, then we can move onto more important topics such as which movie you’d like to watch after supper this evening.”

Perhaps it’s his mention of blue-arsed flies (seriously, what the hell?) but a flock of butterflies suddenly swoop through her stomach.  It’s three days before she’s due to move into her new place, and Killian still has no idea her life (and maybe his) is about to change dramatically.  They’re sitting on one of the wooden benches that line the walking path along the harbour, the remnants of their sandwich lunch scrunched into a brown paper bag at Killian’s feet.   Leaning back, he rests his arm along the back of the bench, his fingertips teasing the nape of her neck.   The midday sun is warm on her face, but it’s nothing compared to the glow of pleasure that every new touch sends skittering across her skin.  This is what she wants, she thinks, the quiet moments in between the craziness.  She wants them with Henry and she wants them with Killian, and what better way to make that happen than to make it easier to be together?

Slipping her hand into the pocket of her jacket, she fishes out her car keys, pleased to see that her nails have finally recovered from her weekend gardening efforts with her mother.  “You want to take a drive?”

He quirks one dark eyebrow at her.  “I’d follow you anywhere, Swan, you know that.”

“I do.” Leaning down, she picks up the paper bag, tossing it to him with a grin.  “One day, I might even let you drive.”

His eyes widen, as though she’s just offered him some glittering prize.  “Really?”

She stares at him, her heart feeling as though someone is gripping it very tightly, and those three words, the ones that she’s only just dared admit to herself, are burning on the tip of her tongue.  “Anything’s possible.”

His answering smirk does nothing to quell the butterflies in her belly.  “Indeed it is.”

 

~*~

 

He peers through the car window as they pull up outside the buttercup yellow house.  “And what’s the reason for a visit for the constabulary?  An errant pixie making mischief, or perhaps a disgruntled dwarf with an axe to grind?”   

He grins at her, all too pleased with his terrible pun, and she gives his bicep a backhanded slap.  “Neither.”   Her pulse quickens as she unbuckles her seatbelt.  “I just want to show you something.”  She retrieves her new house keys from the glove compartment, then quickly clambers out of the car before he can ask her any more questions.

He trails in her wake as she walks to the front gate, and she can literally _feel_ his curiosity growing with every step.  “Who lives here then, Swan?”

She pushes open the white wooden front gate, glad he can’t see her face.  “No one at the moment.”  

Halfway up the cobbled path to the front door, she senses he’s no longer following her.   Her hand tightening around the house keys (God, her palms are sweaty), she turns to find him gazing at the results of her and Mary Margaret’s gardening efforts (she belatedly realises that she can smell the lavender).   After a long moment, he turns to her, his expression faintly guarded.   Before he can speak, she nods at the front door.  “Come on, there’s something I want to show you.”

It’s the oddest house inspection she’s ever experienced.  Just as he had outside, he trails behind her, saying nothing, and the only sound is the muted click of their boots on the wooden floorboards and the hum of her pulse in her ears.  It’s only when she leads him up the narrow staircase and into the master bedroom that he finally speaks.  “Considering you’ve got the keys, I assume we’re not breaking and entering?”

She turns.  He’s lingering in the doorway, as though he doesn’t want to step into the room until he hears her answer.  Flashing him a smile, she walks to the French doors that lead onto the balcony, unlocking them with the second small key she received from Gold.  She pushes them open, and the breeze immediately catches her hair.  “Want to see the view?”

A flicker of frustration dances across his face, but he crosses the empty bedroom to her side, his shoulder brushing against hers as they step out onto the balcony together.  To her relief, she’s timed it exactly right.   The blue of the sky blends perfectly into the blue of the horizon, the afternoon sun turning the surface of the harbour into a sea of glittering tiny whitecaps.   She watches him as he takes it all in, and her heart swells, because she sees the answer to her question in his eyes.  She sees the way he looks at the water, the way his hand is gripping the wooden railing.   Finally, he turns to her, his expression once again guarded.  “Whose house is this?”

Suddenly, she’s no longer afraid.  “Mine.”

His eyes widen.  “What do you mean?”

“I signed a twelve-month lease.”   She dangles the keys in the space between them.  “I move in on Saturday morning.”  He frowns, his jaw clenching, and her stomach lurches, her smile fading.  “What’s wrong?”

He hesitates, then gestures behind them to the open French doors.  “This is quite the momentous decision, is it not?”

 _You have no idea._ “Pretty much.”

“And yet you didn’t breathe a word of it to me.”  He gives her a forced smile that does nothing to hide the unhappiness in his eyes.  “No matter.”  He swallows hard, shoving his right hand into the pocket of his short jacket.  “If you require my assistance with your belongings, I assure you I’m no lightweight in the packhorse department.”

“Hey.”  Reaching out, she catches his left sleeve between her fingers, tugging him by his hooked hand.   “I didn’t tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise.”   The tense set of his shoulders relaxes, just a little, and he takes a half-step closer, his eyes never leaving her face as he waits for her to continue. “Henry will be living here too, whenever he’s not at Regina’s.”

“I see,” he mutters, but she can tell by the tight set of his jaw that he _doesn’t_ see, not really.

“And you, too, if you want.”

The words come out in a rush, flying off her tongue, and she almost wants to close her eyes, afraid to see their impact. 

He looks faintly dazed, the way people do after a knock to the head. “Are you asking me to share your home, Swan?”

“It doesn’t have to be a permanent thing, just when you need a break from Granny’s.”  She’s gabbling now, but she needs to get the words out before they burn a hole in her heart.  “Or if you’d rather stay there, that’s completely fine, and I will totally understand-”

“This isn’t out of pity or obligation?” He lifts his hand to touch her face, his palm warm against her cheek.  “You truly want me here?”  His eyes are gleaming, and the joyous disbelief in his voice makes her breath catch in her throat.  “With you and your lad?”

“Yeah, I want you here.”  She puts her hand over his, feeling her smile stretch beneath his touch.  “I want to make the most of the quiet moments.”

He draws their entwined hands to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to her knuckles, his eyes never leaving hers.  His hand is shaking, she realises, and she suddenly loves him so much she can barely swallow back the words.  _Not now_ , she thinks.  _This is enough for now._

“Then I would be honoured to accept your very kind offer, milady.”  They smile at each other like idiots for a few seconds, then he frowns.  “What do your parents think of all this?”

She grins as she curls her arms around his neck.  “My mother helped me plant the garden.”

“And it’s lovely.” He bends his head to hers, his lips brushing against the corner of her mouth.  “What about your father?”

Nudging her nose against his, she inhales the spicy scent of his skin.  “He’s just happy that I’m happy.”

“Very diplomatic, Swan,” he murmurs, sounding almost giddy, and the warmth that rushes through her has her wanting to check to see if her skin is actually glowing.  It’s a different kind of magic, this thing between them, hers for the taking, and she intends to grab it with both hands.  “Perhaps I should pay my respects to your parents, in the interests of good form-”

She grips two handfuls of his dark hair, making his eyes glitter with the promise of retaliation. “Do you think you might stop talking long enough to kiss me any time soon?”

His lips curve in a lazy smile.  “What do _you_ think, love?”

 

~*~

 

The first time he kisses her in the buttercup yellow house, they’re standing on a balcony with a view of the water, the scent of lavender and the ocean tinging the air, his hand soft on her face, his mouth sweet and warm against hers.

It is, Emma Swan thinks, very good to be home.

 

~*~

 


End file.
